


The Pulse I Offer

by Jalules



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6981676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalules/pseuds/Jalules
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Nurse is quite suddenly struck with inspiration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pulse I Offer

**Author's Note:**

> What's better than one asexual character? Two asexual characters! Then it's a party.
> 
> Also, took some liberties with Farmer since I adore her despite her still relatively minor character status.

.

.

.

Riding back to campus after a game so narrowly won that the majority of the team is too tired to properly celebrate, Derek Nurse is quite suddenly struck with inspiration. He scrambles for the nearest pen, drops it only once, and searches for too long through his bag for the notebook he most definitely forgot in his dorm.

He drags a crumpled syllabus from a forgotten pocket, flips the page over to the blank side, and begins writing, a spectacularly messy first draft.

The background sounds of snoring and whispered conversations have harmonized to form a perfect ambient soundtrack to the creative process that is interrupted briefly, not unwelcomely, by a questioning nudge from Dex at Derek’s side.

“Last minute assignment?” He suggests, and raises his eyebrows when Derek stares for too long without answering. The yellow flash of each streetlight they pass along the road is catching in Dex’s eyes, reflecting sharply and giving his shadowed face a fleeting, golden glow.

“Nah,” Derek says finally, and pauses long enough to make Dex frown in irritation, to remember which order the words he’d been thinking of went in, “Just in the mood to write.”

Dex makes a thoughtful noise, but doesn’t comment one way or the other. He looks pointedly away, disinterested or polite or both, but he stays close to Derek’s side.

.

.

_Shoulder to shoulder, jostled and watching_

_the shoulder of the road succumb_

_to a sharp turn,_

 

_I commit to memory and later,_

_in ~~words to page~~ contemplated words to page,_

_your profile,_

 

_~~Your jaw~~ _ _the permanent fixture of your clenched jaw,_

_relaxed for a passing moment,_

_(camera imagery? a winning goal? a???)_

_a single shot._

_._

_._

“So,” Bitty says, apropo of nothing, “You and Dex seem to be getting on better now.”

Derek looks to his right where Bitty stands, towel at the ready, leaning gingerly against the kitchen counter.

Together they’re working their way through washing a mountain of dishes, mostly muffin tins, a chore that Derek has picked up in part as a bid for Holster’s dibs and in part as a genuine effort to keep the kitchen where half his food supply is prepared, by the grace of Bitty, clean and operational.

Bitty has elected himself for drying duty, probably just because he’s naturally helpful, but possibly because he’s the one who lost track of time earlier while mixing lemon glaze and had to race to class at the last minute, leaving the kitchen a mess.

Either way, Derek appreciates the help and the company, “Getting on?” He parrots back, smirking at the turn of phrase, “Yeah, you could say that.”

“You just had to get to know each other,” Bitty says pleasantly, “Guess second year’s the charm, huh?” Then, much softer, to himself, “Huh.”

Derek moves to hand Bitty a freshly rinsed measuring cup and finds him staring out the window, distracted, looking a little like he’s had a revelation, “Guess so,” He says, firmly, to recapture Bitty’s attention, and when he looks back to Derek he’s slightly flushed.

“Oh! Where on earth is my head?” Bitty chides himself, and takes the dripping measuring cup into his terry cloth wrapped hold.

“Been daydreaming a lot lately, huh Bitty?”

Bitty looks up, and up, to meet Derek’s eyes, expression stating a very clear and firm _frog do not test me_ , but he sounds sweet as anything as he laughs off the chirp, “Oh excuse me, is there only room for one deep thinker in this kitchen?” He grins when Derek holds up soapy hands in surrender, then turns away for a moment to stash the dried measuring cup in its appropriate cabinet, and when he turns back around his smile has softened, “So would you say that you and Dex are...friends?”

Derek shrugs, scraping cheese off the side of a spatula, “Sure.”

“I haven’t heard any arguing at least.”

“We still argue,” Derek corrects, handing off the clean spatula and a few forks for good measure, “We just don’t low-key try to kill each other any more. It’s like, pff- play fighting? More chirping than anything.”

Bitty smiles at that, almost smug, and Derek raises an eyebrow, daring him to say something. If Bitty is getting at what he thinks he’s getting at, well- well he wouldn’t be wrong.

“I’m glad,” Bitty says, dropping silverware in place and picking up another handful like it’s part of a coordinated routine, graceful, “Dex really likes you,” He quips, then flusters, backtracking as Derek drops the thankfully plastic container in his hands right back into the sink in surprise at the declaration, “Ah- I mean, I got the impression he really did want to be close with you, is all. But he’s, I dunno, shy, maybe? Stubborn? You’re both a little mule headed.”

Derek opens his mouth to refute that, closes it just as quick. Bitty’s on a roll, babbling nervously.

“And I’m just glad that things are okay between you. It seems like you’re all finding your footing and I’m real proud, and I hope that- that uh-” He fumbles, color in his cheeks, and Derek takes the opportunity to interrupt.

“I really like him too,” He says, and Bitty’s shoulders sag in relief, “As a friend and in a weird crush way,” and now Bitty is beaming.

“Lord!” He cries, actually splaying his arms wide in exaltation, “Thank you! I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions but heck if you two aren’t obvious as anything!”

Derek snorts an embarrassing laugh, immediately covers it with a gentle clearing of his throat. He takes up the muffin tin with the most gubby fruit and flour mixture stuck in its edges and pours his focus into cleaning it.

“The way that boy looks at you-” Bitty says, almost exasperated, speaking in starts and stops through another excited rush of words, “I was honestly starting to worry since things like that can go sour real quick, but oh this is- that’s so- I’m so happy for you-”

“We’re not _dating_ , Bitty,” Derek says, a little uncomfortable. He means it to sound like a joke, but halfway to speaking the words they manage to come out sounding a little sad. He forces a small smile so Bitty will know this isn’t something that has bothered him even slightly.

“Oh, well no, but- um,” Bitty starts, hesitates, looks up and up at Derek again to ask, softly, “Do you wanna be?”

“Maybe,” Derek says with a shrug, and nearly winces. It’s the kind of ‘maybe’ that sounds a hell of a lot closer to ‘yes,’ and Bitty can definitely tell the difference.

“Ah,” He says thoughtfully, turning the towel in his hands over and over, not quite folding it, “Have you talked about it?”

Derek shakes his head, shoots a curious glance Bitty’s way, “Has Dex talked to you?”

Bitty’s cheeks go immediately pinker, “Oh goodness, no! I haven’t heard anything from anybody, I was just _guessing_ , and it isn’t really my business anyway,” He rings the towel in his hands, twisting it up tightly, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have even brought it up.”

Derek shakes his head, relaxed, honestly relaxed now, “It’s chill. It’s not like, a point of tension or anything. We’re figuring it out.”

Bitty smiles at that, releasing his death grip on the towel and tucking back into the task of drying, “Great,” He says cheerfully, “And Nursey, if you ever want to talk about anything, you know I’m here, right?”

Derek meets his earnest gaze, smiles just as sincerely, momentarily dropping any pretense of never stressing anything ever. He thinks about telling Bitty that he actually likes Dex a _lot_ and that the confirmation that it wasn’t just his imagination that Dex had been gazing at him hopefully and leaning into his touch more often is good to hear, or officially coming out to Bitty because his sexuality has never technically come up in conversation so he’s never made a thing of it, or mentioning that he’s working on this poem that’s relevant, one that his favorite professor already expressed an interest in including in the end of semester campus-wide literature and arts magazine but which seems awfully personal to put in print-

But that seems like a lot.

He says, “Thanks, man,” and they carry on washing dishes.

.

.

_Your hands hold a chill like ~~ocean spray~~ ~~ugh~~ (specific?) ~~ocean…~~ the Pacific;_

_another thing settled in you,_

_still unyielding._

_> very nice!_

 

_And I would never wish away that cold,_

_but let it shock against my skin,_

_intentional,_

 

_and search for, find, in your eyes reflected,_

_a mirror_ _(cliche? w/e)_ _of my own question,_

_a turning tide._

.

.

Lardo’s room is possibly the most nicely decorated place in the Haus, in Derek’s opinion, though he may be biased. He’d compliment her on her aesthetic, if it wouldn’t make him sound like he was completely up his own ass. He likes her taste in prints though, and tells her so when he’s invited into the space for the first time, caught on the way back from the library and asked for a favor;

 

“Hey Nursey, can you model for me? It should only take an hour, tops.” She’d said.

And with nothing in particular lined up for the afternoon, not to mention a healthy dose of narcissism compelling him to lend his natural good looks to Lardo’s artistic pursuits despite the fact that she would draw quite literally anyone who sat still long enough, he’d readily agreed.

 

It’s sun warm and softly lit where Lardo has set him up with a chair borrowed from the kitchen and a desk lamp casting deep shadows on his skin. He’s got his phone in hand, Google Docs open to flip back and forth between poetry assignments he’s stuck on and essays he really doesn’t want to be bothered with when his phone alerts him to a text.

**Poindexter: Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something. It’s probably a bad idea to bring it up via text but honestly I suck at face to face conversations anyway.**

 

Derek holds the pose Lardo directed him into, forces his expression to reflect a blank calm he’s not feeling. Dex has been doing this thing lately where he looks at Derek really intensely, like he’s gearing up to say something that never gets said. His searching gazes make Derek squirm with what they could be conveying, what he _hopes_ Dex is trying to tell him.

He texts back,

**lol true.**

**what’s up?**

The reply comes a few seconds later.

**Poindexter: You’ve been flirting with me, right?**

**Poindexter: Or am I totally misreading the situation?**

Derek cracks a smile, turns in his seat to lean forward, shoulders rounded and phone held low as Lardo signals for him to shift position,

**nah you’re right.**

**and you’ve been flirting back ;)**

He very nearly cracks a joke about straight white boy texting, but thinks better of it, not wanting to derail the conversation.

**Poindexter: Yeah.**

**Poindexter: So, I just wanted to be straightforward with you since this is already kind of weird for me and I don’t want it to mess us up on the ice.**

“Can you hold this a little longer?” Lardo asks after the timer on her phone ticks past the point she should stop drawing, “But maybe turn your face just a little more into the light?” She watches him tip his chin up, says, “Perfect,” when he’s looking where she wants him to.

Derek strains to see his keyboard as he types,

**totally. me neither.**

**Poindexter: And I don’t know how serious you are about this, but I don’t want to mislead you.**

Derek’s throat feels suddenly tight. He doesn’t have to work to stay still, holding his breath as he waits for another text, an elaboration.

**Poindexter: Basically I just want to be clear that I’m probably not going to sleep with you. Possibly ever. Not because I don’t like you, just because I’m not really into that kind of thing.**

**Poindexter: So if that’s what you were going for, you know. No.**

Derek breathes out, relieved, and he can feel Lardo eyeing him suspiciously but he has to address his phone before anything else because the universe may have in fact just shifted, and possibly in his favor,

**okay firstly thanks for being upfront with me, that’s really cool of you.**

**and secondly i’m ace as hell.**

“Awesome,” Lardo says, “Still with me?”

“Chyeah, no problem,” Derek twists around in his seat, stretching his legs out. He holds his phone with one hand, trying to look as though he isn’t willing it to show him a response.

“If you’ve got two more in you I’ll be set,” Lardo tells him, already turning the page in her newsprint pad to start fresh.

**Poindexter: Wow. Really?**

“Yes really,” Derek mutters to himself, just a little annoyed, and looks up, startled, when he hears Lardo snickering.

“Please don’t tell me you’re picking fights with dudes on Goodreads again,” She says, looking between him and her paper hummingbird-fast, sketching loose, fluid lines.

“That was one time,” Derek insists, and frowns down at his phone, “I’m just editing something.”

It’s not technically a lie. The Google Doc with his current poetic project is open, awaiting his attention. He just hasn’t looked at it since Dex texted him.

“Ah,” Lardo says knowingly, and he really can’t tell if she’s being understanding or just pretending not to notice his bullshit.

**Poindexter: I mean, same I guess. That’s sort of what I was trying to tell you. I’m not good with labels but, yeah.**

**Poindexter: I just assumed we wouldn’t be on the same page.**

Derek smirks down at his phone, very clearly not editing any kind of work,

**when you assume…**

**Poindexter: Shut up, Nursey.**

**you are kind of an ass though.**

**but anyway, i promise i’m not trying to get in your pants.**

**maybe just into your bed in a totally nonsexual way.**

**Poindexter: Oh my god.**

“So what are you editing?” Lardo asks as she applies featherlight touches to the page, “Term paper? Comedy routine?”

“Poetry,” Derek answers with a shrug, feigning nonchalance despite the fact that he can’t get the smile off his face, “Revisiting an old concept.”

At this, Lardo nods with full understanding. She gets it, gets expression through creation. Lardo’s cool like that.

**so can i still flirt with you or is that off the table? either way it’s chill, no worries.**

**Poindexter: No, you can still flirt with me. I like it.**

Another minute of sketching later, Lardo calls it a day. She puts down the pad of paper in her hands and stretches, cracking her back, “40 two minute drawings, my ass,” She says, to no one in particular, “Try 20 and shove it, professor.”

To Derek, she says, “Thanks again, Nursey. You’re a decent model.”

“Naturally,” Derek says, flashing his most charming smile. He watches her packing up fragile charcoal pieces, considering the life drawing exercise he just took part in, and the work he’s seen from her at student shows. His professor’s suggestion to have something print-ready by the end of the semester is ringing in his ears like a threat.

“Yo, Lardo,” Derek hears himself saying, and puts his phone face down on his thigh before it can distract him, “Do you ever worry about putting too much of yourself into your art? Like, exposing your personal life to the world?”

Lardo glances up at him, one eyebrow cocked. She looks momentarily suspicious, searching as if Derek has a hidden motive, but finally says, “Yup. It’s terrifying.”

Derek blinks in surprise. To hear Lardo, manager of steel, no nonsense artist, master of all drinking games, admit to fear is kind of incredible, “What do you do about it?”

Lardo pushes the long side of her hair back with the non-charcoal smudged heel of her hand, “Nothing. Make art anyway.”

Derek’s throat feels tight again, but in a good way, a way he thinks Lardo understands just from looking at him. He smiles, uneasy, “Just put your soul on display?”

Lardo shrugs, says, “Pretty much, yeah.”

“Huh.”

**nice.**

**me too.**

.

.

_It is ~~no~~ not a private thing, my quick heart,_

_the pulse I offer to ~~you in~~ ~~no~~ ~~fuckwordsdammit~~ your palm,_

_ in view of all _ _,_

 

_But by some chance ~~only you~~ you alone have felt it,_

_recognized ~~that pulse~~ the beat in  my chest_

_ and neck, and wrist, _

 

_And ~~chose to hold and~~ made a choice to keep it for yourself,_

_a rhythm that you match and hold,_

_a compromise._

.

.

“To be honest, Farmer,” Derek says from the floor, gazing up at where she’s made herself quite at home on Chowder’s bed, minding his favorite shark plush toy while Chowder himself is downstairs fixing her a hot chocolate with pastel marshmallows, “I didn’t think there was a soul on earth worthy of an absolute vision and literal goddess such as yourself,” He pauses, giving her time to get her giggles out, “But C might just be that soul.”

“He is most worthy,” Farmer informs him, caught halfway between grave seriousness and laughing again. There’s supposed to be some kind of study session going on right now, but so far all that’s been accomplished is a lot of goofing off. Farmer’s giggling dies down as she looks at Derek thoughtfully, then asks, with a hopeful smile, “Speaking of date-worthy people; how are things with Dex?”

And it’s still weird to hear a question like that and not have to respond with a forced _“chill,”_ to put in context for himself that he and Dex are- something. Not dating, not yet, but they have officially been on _a date_ , and that’s pretty damning evidence in the court case argument his brain drums up whenever he pauses to think about things like relationship statuses.

“Pretty good,” He says instead, still clinging to a tiny shred of calm, just to keep himself from admitting to some kind of mortifying insecurity, or worse, the kind of excited affection that makes him smile helplessly like a pathetic lovestruck fool, “We’re just seeing how this goes.”

Farmer nods her understanding, stroking the left fin of the stuffed shark in her lap, “That’s good. Dex seems really happy whenever I see him lately.”

Somewhere, deep undercover in his own mind, Derek imagines a giddy fistpump at that. To Farmer, he says, “Hah. Yeah. He’s not the most communicative guy when it comes to feelings, but he’s still pretty easy to read. Just takes a while to warm him up, you know? Old school courting and all.”

”Chris told me _you_ said Dex actually kissed you first,” Farmer says, “On your first date.”

Derek stares blankly up at her for a long moment, considering every life choice he’s ever made but especially the ones where he confided in Chowder, before heaving a sigh.

“Betrayed by a goalie,” He says dramatically, and, when she snorts a laugh, “And mocked by a deity among mortal coeds. This might be my lowest point.”

“Pretty sure you’ve had lower points out in the hallway after Haus parties,” Farmer tells him, looking dubious, and it’s too solid a chirp to even argue the point, “And I’m not mocking you, I think it’s sweet,” Her gaze turns fond as she says the word, _sweet_ , just as sappy as when she snuggles up to Chowder’s side, “Have you written an ode to his every freckle yet?”

“God no,” Derek groans, “What kind of a sappy cliched douche do you take me for?” Farmer doesn’t respond, which is possibly more troubling than any verbalized answer.

“I like to think my poetry is a little more sophisticated than that,” Derek says quietly, and when he looks up at her, Farmer’s smile is wide enough to show her gums. She looks like she might clap her hands in sheer joy, or possibly combust on the spot.

“So you _did_ write something for him,” She says, and shrugs him off when he corrects her with a hasty ‘not exactly,’ “I bet it’s great, freckles or no.”

Derek smirks at that, wonders vaguely how long it takes Chowder to make a cup of hot chocolate, if maybe Bitty snatched him up to help in some kind of baking expedition or cleaning spree. Farmer might be waiting on that drink a while.

“Do you want to read it?” Derek asks, and laughs when Farmer’s eyes go wide in awe, funnily similar to the starstruck expression he’s seen Chowder wear a hundred times over.

“I’d love to,” She says sincerely, and her honest interest sends a thrill through Derek that’s one half pride and one half nerves, “If you don’t mind sharing…”

Derek shrugs, gropes for his notebook and folders where he dropped them unceremoniously on the floor, “It might end up printed anyway,” He says,” Might as well have another set of eyes on it.”

The typewritten page he slips out of his notebook is folded in half, covered in his own corrections and notes, with red pen marks all over from his professor, “It still needs some revisions.”

He hands the page off into Farmer’s waiting fingers, watches her handle it gingerly, like it could be fragile. He looks away the moment her eyes begin to track across the page, already considering changes that could be made to this latest version.

He waits, she reads, in silence.

“Oh, Nursey,” She says softly, after a few moments, “This is beautiful.”

Chowder appears in the doorway, a mug in one hand and a bag of multicolored marshmallows in the other, “What’s beautiful?” He asks brightly.

“The poem Nursey wrote for Dex,” Farmer says, and Derek chokes slightly on nothing at all.

“It’s not-” He starts to correct, “Not _for_ him, exactly.”

“Is it about him?” Chowder asks, sounding pleased as he hands off Farmer’s hot chocolate in exchange for the page in her hand. He looks to Derek, waiting for permission, and grins at the eventual shrugged response.

“Go for it. You’ve known him as long as I have, you’ll notice if it’s too obvious,” He reasons, and only half-watches as Chowder scans the page.

“Aw,” Chowder says quietly after only a moment, then again, drawing the word out, “ _Aww_ -”

Farmer leans against his side, curled up and cozy with the stuffed shark across her lap and her head inclined just enough that she can peer over Chowder’s shoulder and sip at her cocoa at the same time.

“ _Awwww_ -” Chowder says once more, nearly a whine, and Derek is sort of afraid he might get all teary. He doesn’t though, just smiles broadly and hands the page back down to Derek, who lets it lay facedown on his chest, momentarily hidden.

“Do you think it’s too much?” Derek asks, looking between the two of them, “It reads as a little intense, and I don’t know how he’d feel about that- About it being printed.”

About it being written at all, honestly.

Chowder frowns uncertainly, looks to Farmer, who shakes her head, backing him up before he’s even spoken.

“It isn’t too intense,” Chowder says, and Farmer nods in agreement.

“It’s sweet,” She says, “And pretty general, really. If I didn’t already know about you and Dex I wouldn’t have guessed the subject.”

“Same,” Chowder chimes in, “It’s just- it’s _really_ nice, Nursey. You should tell him you wrote it! It’d be super romantic.”

Derek pulls a face, saying, “I don’t know if we’re really... _there_ yet,” Chowder and Farmer’s matching looks of disappointment earn an uneasy laugh, “Chill,” He tells them, “We’re getting there.”

The _awws_ are in chorus now.

.

.

_The arch of your back, an Arc de Triomphe, (too pompous?)_

_> I wouldn’t say that, exactly..._

_a victory when it’s displayed_

_in careless trust,_

 

_ Takes every breath I’d never meant to save _

_and traps it high inside my throat,_

_a secret kept,_

 

_Until it ~~becomes~~ can form the ~~answer~~ spoken answer,_

_that you are what comes to mind first,_

_in so much now._

_> This is a lovely sentiment._

_._

_._

The front yard of the Haus is, perhaps, not the most ideal place to cozy up with Dex, since he usually prefers some degree of privacy to initiate a Full Cuddle, but Derek has never had a problem lounging on any available section of grass and generally doing whatever the hell he wants. Slowly but surely, he thinks, Dex is coming around on his way of doing things. He likes hanging out in the shade under the big old tree, anyway.

“I feel like I’m eavesdropping whenever I’m out here,” Dex mutters, hazarding a glance in the direction of the reading room, where Bitty and Lardo are having a hushed but pleasant sounding conversation.

“Or maybe we’re the ones being eavesdropped on,” Derek suggests sluggishly, quite comfortable where he’s settled his head on Dex’s shoulder.

“Like we ever talk about anything worth hearing,” Dex scoffs, and Derek smiles. Not a chirped ‘you,’ but a self-deprecating ‘we.’

“I love it when you use plural pronouns,” He says sweetly, and he can practically hear Dex rolling his eyes. He can also very clearly feel Dex’s hand twisting to fit palm to palm against his own, though, and that’s nice. Derek shifts his weight a little so they can hold hands more comfortably, taking his head off Dex’s shoulder and looking down to where Dex’s book bag is sitting open, one textbook having already been selected for half-hearted review. Dex is always lugging around about a hundred pounds of textbooks for some reason Derek can’t fathom.

There’s something else in Dex’s bag though, something slim and colorful with a cover illustration Derek thinks he recognizes.

“Yo,” He says, easily catching Dex’s attention as he gestures their held hands in the direction of the book bag, “You bought the lit zine?”

Because it is definitely a copy of the school literary and arts magazine, the very same one that Derek has a poem printed in. Two poems, actually, but one of them is about Manhattan and even though he’s pretty satisfied with it, it really doesn’t seem important in comparison to the _other_ piece he’d submitted.

“Hm?” Dex looks from Derek to his own book bag, back again, “Oh. Uh, yeah.”

Derek’s whole body feels tense at the confirmation. What he wrote isn’t a secret, but that doesn’t mean he expected Dex to read it, much less buy a copy. Dex doesn’t buy _anything_ he doesn’t absolutely need.

“Dude,” Derek says, “I could have just given you a copy,” Out of the corner of his eye he can see Dex’s ears going red, “I got extras, I mean.”

“Why wouldn’t I get a copy myself?” Dex says, a little sharply, “I know at least three people who worked on it,” He pauses, mentally calculating, “Four. And you.”

“Wow. It’s an honor to be included.”

“Shut up,” Dex says flatly, “I didn’t even know you had anything in there until I saw your name, since you never mentioned it.”

Derek fidgets, wondering if Dex read his work or just skimmed it or-

“I like your writing,” Dex says, looking slightly uncomfortable, “I don’t really know anything about poetry, but both your pieces were...nice.”

Nice? Just nice? Not chirp worthy? Not humiliating? Not way too intense considering they haven’t been dating that long and technically he started working on it before they ever did more than look at each other a little too long?

“I never mentioned it because I thought you might be embarrassed,” Derek says, almost honest. He leaves out the part where he might be embarrassed too.

Dex squints at him, incredulous, “Why the hell would I be embarrassed by your poetry?”

Derek squints right back at him, sure that Dex is messing with him, “You read my piece, right? Not the city one.”

“I read both,” Dex tells him, leaning away. He keeps holding Derek’s hand though, squeezing his fingers a little, nervous, when Derek stares back at him in disbelief, “What? Was I not supposed to?”

Derek bites back the kneejerk ‘no never I should have taken it all to my grave’ that comes to mind, “Nah, it’s not like that. I’m just surprised. I thought the other one might bug you.”

“Why, because it’s about...romance or something?”

Derek gestures vaguely with his free hand,”Because it’s about us- about _you._ ”

Dex sputters. He almost, very nearly, laughs. He says, “What?” Like this is the most ridiculous thing Derek has ever said to him, though they both know Bitty has live tweeted evidence of far stranger conversations between them before.

Which leads Derek to believe that Dex is sincere. That he honestly did not comprehend how much of his own heart and soul went into that poem.

Derek looks away from Dex, from the magazine, out into the endless blue of the sky as if awaiting the rapture, “You’re so dense,” He says softly, wonderingly, and talks right over Dex’s noise of indignation, “Oh my god. I spent so much time worrying and you didn’t even realize.”

“How was I supposed to know you wrote a poem about me?” Dex demands, loud enough that Bitty and Lardo have gone quiet and probably really are eavesdropping now.

“Why wouldn’t I write a poem about you?”

“Why _would_ you?” Dex’s cheeks are flushed now, his fingers tight around Derek’s, holding him in what is almost certainly a technique pulled from googling “couple’s conflict resolution.”

Derek puts his free hand over Dex’s, patting the back of his wrist gently to coax him into letting him go.

“Dex,” He says, “Will- seriously? Why _wouldn’t_ I write about you?”

He watches the flush spread across Dex’s face, sees the way he grits his teeth, not angry, just worked up. Derek reaches across to Dex’s book bag, pulling the magazine copy out and flipping to the page where his favored piece is displayed. He moves to sit facing Dex, meets his eyes briefly between clearing his throat and looking down to follow words he has nearly memorized after months of edits, and Dex’s breath audibly catches.

Derek reads,

_“Shoulder to shoulder, jostled and watching_

_the shoulder of the road succumb_

_to a sharp turn,_

 

_I commit to memory, and later,_

_in contemplated words to page,_

_your profile,_

 

_the permanent fixture of your clenched jaw,_

_relaxed for a passing moment,_

_a single shot._

 

_Your hands hold a chill like the Pacific;_

_another thing settled in you,_

_still unyielding._

 

_And I would never wish away that cold,_

_but let it shock against my skin,_

_intentional,_

 

_and search for, find, in your eyes reflected,_

_a mirror of my own question,_

_a turning tide._

 

_It is not a private thing, my quick heart,_

_the pulse I offer to your palm,_

_in view of all,_

 

_But by some chance you alone have felt it,_

_recognized the beat in my chest_

_and neck, and wrist,_

 

_And made a choice to keep it for yourself,_

_a rhythm that you match and hold,_

_a compromise._

 

_The arch of your back, an Arc de Triomphe,_

_a victory when it’s displayed_

_in careless trust,_

 

_Takes every breath I’d never meant to save_

_and traps it high inside my throat,_

_a secret kept,_

 

_Until it can form the spoken answer,_

_that you are what comes to mind first,_

_in so much now._

 

_Though it is no easy task for pieces_

_as jagged as we are, we reach_

_and meet halfway,_

 

_Smoothing edges in each discovery_

_of ways we fit without breaking,_

_conditional,_

 

_So that at least one thing agreed upon,_

_your hand held here in mine, becomes_

_an If and Then.”_

 

Derek drops the magazine into his lap, looks back up to find Dex red in the face, seeming overwhelmed. Derek grins at him, asks, “You okay there, Dex?”

Dex takes a deep breath, lets it out in a whistle, “Okay. So when you read it all out I can see what you mean,” He frowns slightly when Derek laughs, but forges ahead anyway, bracketing his hands around blank air as if framing his thoughts, “And I got the programming reference,” He says, then adds, a muttered admission, “That was cute.”

“Thought you’d like that,” Derek says smugly.

“Uh huh,” Dex deadpans, as if he isn’t utterly charmed, “It’s…it’s nice. But what’s with the back arching bit? Isn’t that kind of…”

Derek’s brain autocompletes; kind of _stupid_ , kind of _corny_ , kind of _obscure-_

“Kind of what?”

Dex waves a hand now, searching for the right word, settles on, “Sexual?”

Derek raises his eyebrows, suggestive as everything Dex is implying, and says, “Honestly? I was just thinking of the time you got stuck in your shirt with your arms over your head in the locker room.”

Dex drops his head to his hand, fingers stretched from temple to temple, “Oh my god you’re such a tool.”

“It was cute!” Derek insists, and he can hear the grin in his own voice, can see Dex smiling sheepishly from under the partial cover of his hand. Derek takes that hand, pulling it away from Dex’s face to interlock their fingers again, and leans forward to press a kiss to Dex’s cheek.

“I can’t believe you wrote a poem for me,” Dex mutters, caught right on the borderline between truly touched and completely disgusted.

“Not for,” Derek corrects, “About. If I wrote a poem _for_ you it’d be in longhand on parchment and personally delivered. Possibly with roses.”

Dex makes a short gagging noise, but kisses Derek anyway, inspiring a dozen poetic sentiments in the single motion.

.

.

.


End file.
